Risky Business
by cimmerianwish
Summary: <html><head></head>Grad school isn't cheap; Jane has gotten a little creative at making ends meet. In a dimly-lit hotel bar, she crosses paths with a wealthy, enigmatic businessman who, after their night together, decides to become a repeat client. But he's more than he seems, and as Jane's two lives begin to bleed together, she's discovering just how dangerous the game she's playing is.</html>


**I AM STARTRAVELLER776. **I have a lot of underage followers on my main account and didn't feel comfortable posting this there. I promise, I'm not plagiarizing my own story. :) (You can message my startraveller776 account if you're concerned, and I'll allay your worries.)

**Disclaimer:** I own only my naughty imagination.

**A/N:** This is based on a Call Girl AU prompt on Tumblr. I have no idea why my Muse thought _I_ should be the one to write it, but there's no arguing with her. Ever.

It should be noted that the age gap between Jane and Loki is a bit larger than we typically see in human AU fics.

Also, this story earns its rating in this first installment.

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><p><strong>Chapter One<br>**_The Bargain_

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><p>It's late when Jane sees him sitting at the bar, staring at his tumbler of whiskey as he swirls it in lazy circles. His long face is sculpted in sharp angles and symmetrical shadows, raven hair slicked back except where it curls at the tops of his ears and nape of his neck. He's handsome, she decides, in a way that reminds her of ethereal paintings of fairies and magical realms despite his pristine black suit (Armani? She's learned to recognize high-end tailoring). Better looking than the other men swilling drinks in this upscale establishment, some casting glances in her direction full of invitation.<p>

She watches him for several minutes. Waiting. In case he's not as alone as he looks. Screwing up her courage because this is not her, no matter how many times she's played this game.

She'd rather be in the library or logging time in the lab, prepping for the start of classes. But there is no library, no lab, no future without _this_. Not after losing her financial aid; not when scholarships have become a too rare commodity in this modern economy. Not when the alternative is a life of indentured servitude to the banks in a futile attempt to pay off student loans.

One more client to set her for the term. One more, and she thinks it might be him. (She hopes it will be.)

Before she can rise from her plush leather armchair, though, another woman sidles up to him, and Jane tramps down her disappointment. She should scout out another potential, but she's fixated on him, the way he leans back and examines the woman, shoulders straightening in a show of—not quite disdain, but a dare with a hint of mockery. _Impress me_. He hears her out, murmurs something under his breath, and his companion's plastered-on smile drops into a scowl as she walks away. Apparently, she's failed to capture his interest.

Jane hesitates—what if she fails, too?—but glance at the other pickings gives her the push to at least _try_. (Even his disdain is more appealing than their leers, and she should be unsettled. She's not.)

Heart pounding against her sternum, she takes the stool next to him and ignores him as she waves the bartender over. She orders a whiskey, single malt, and says nothing else. Her mark doesn't like the direct approach, if his last exchange was any indication, and it's not her style, anyway. She's brazen in the lab, but not here.

He broaches the silence after a beat or two, though he doesn't look at her. "I'm disappointed," he says in a deep, raspy British timbre. "You've been watching me all evening and now you won't deign to address me."

She wills the blush from her cheeks, grasps at the character she's created for these outings. Self-Assured. Coy. Adventurous. (Things she is not when it comes to the opposite sex.) "Who says I've been watching you?"

The corner of his mouth twitching up in a half-smirk, he gestures with a finger toward the mirror behind the bar.

Ah. She should have known better, been more covert. But there is no space for embarrassment in this moment, only enticement (god, please let it work). "Seems you've been watching me."

His smile stretches a hair, and he makes a sound—almost a laugh. "Perhaps," he says as he takes a sip of his drink. "What's your name?"

"Caroline," she lies. (There is a careful divide between this world and the _real_ one where Jane Foster lives.) "Caroline Herschel."

He raises a brow, smile wide enough to bare a straight line of teeth. "Is that so?" He cocks his head, studies her with the same intense, measuring gaze that he leveled on the other woman earlier. (_Impress me_.) "Tell me, Fräulein Herschel, have you discovered any comets recently?"

Her stomach flutters at how easily he caught the obscure reference. Exactly what does he do? She keeps the awe from her expression, forces her mouth to shape a flirty grin. "Been there, done that," she says. "I've been looking for Schwarzschild wormholes lately."

She regrets the words as soon as they spill over her tongue (this is creeping precariously close to reality) and blames the taunt in his pale eyes for the lapse.

He leans forward, towards her, and brushes a lock of hair behind her ear. "I'll pay you double your rate," he murmurs low enough not to be overheard, "if you tell me your true name and what you do when you're not prowling hotel bars for business."

Hard plastic is pressed into her palm. A keycard. Black and glossy. "The penthouse suite," he explains, and then he is standing, dropping a hundred on the bar.

He leaves with the kind of understated imperious gate that bleeds wealth and _power_. Another man rises from a table in the shadowed corner and follows him out, and she thinks maybe she ought to let this opportunity pass her by. He's not just a lonely executive, but something more. Something dangerous.

But then, double her rate when he hadn't asked what her rate was. What harm could there be in one night?

Ten minutes later, she's on the elevator (she had to use the keycard to access the penthouse level), her middle twisted in a knot of nerves and anticipation. She never knows what to expect when her encounters move to private quarters, though most of them are almost formulaic: hungry, sloppy kisses followed by a race to completion (theirs rather than hers). There are exceptions—sometimes even a languid seduction—but it's always been about her body and their desires. (She doesn't mind, not anymore; as a scientist, she chooses to see her physical form as a mere vessel. Her mind and her metaphorical heart are the commodities she holds precious.)

But he already wants more than the modest curves of her figure, and it perturbs her a little that she's willing to give him a piece of herself for the promise of a bigger payout—and perhaps for the electricity she felt when his fingers caressed her ear. (Another new and risky thing.)

The elevator opens to a short hallway, and it takes her a moment—two—to still the sudden quiver in her knees and step outside of the safe confines of the metal box. At the other end, a man sits to the right of the double doors, the same one who left the bar on the heels of her new client. In better light, he is _striking_. Almost colorless skin framed with white-blond hair, enhanced by the silver suit he wears. He looks at her with vivid blue eyes, sets down his book, and rises to greet her, his other hand slipping away from inside of his jacket. In the brief movement, she catches the dark outline of a gun at his hip.

(Something more. Something dangerous.)

He reaches toward her, palm up, in silent expectation. She passes the keycard to him, hoping that's what he wanted. He pockets the plastic without a word and presses a thumb against a glass plate near the jamb. The door unlocks with a loud click, and her throat tightens as he swings it open.

"Your guest has arrived," he says. (Low and British just like his employer.)

"Thank you, Mal," comes the reply from the other side. "Send her in."

The guard—Mal—waves her inside, and she sucks in a breath as she steps across the threshold, praying the man who has procured her services isn't a psychopath. Mal closes the door behind her. (No turning back now.)

She's never been in a suite like this before (most of her clients have been middle management—vice presidents of sales or accounting, given luxurious rooms, but never an entire floor). The décor is classic decadence, cream and taupe accentuated by dark mahogany. She can't begin to imagine how much one night in this place would cost, let alone more.

Her nameless companion sits on the sofa, finger dancing over the touchscreen of his cell phone. He's shed his suit coat, loosened his tie, and rolled the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to his elbows. Casual and elegant, and she feels like an imposter in her clearance rack gown. (She's never cared before, but it seems to matter now.)

"Well?" he says, glancing up at her.

"Jane Foster," she replies before she loses her nerve. "I'm a graduate student at Harvard. Physics, specifically theoretical astrophysics and real world applications."

"Pleasure, Jane Foster," he says with a smile on this side of smug before turning back to his phone. "Make yourself comfortable. I've some business to attend to before we begin."

She takes a seat opposite the sofa in one of the suede overstuffed armchairs. The hide is supple, lavish, and she'd rather focus on that than wondering what kind of businessman needs an armed guard. She tries not to imagine seeing his face in the papers one day as a mafia boss or an arms dealer who has finally been brought to justice.

Her gaze drifts to the coffee table where there's an open bottle of wine and two glasses. Next to them, a stack of one hundred dollar bills, the band that holds them together stamped with the number ten thousand. That can't be for her, she reasons. It's more than twenty times the rate she charges for an evening. (If it is for her, she's afraid to know what he's planning.)

The low hum of his phone has her looking at him again. He's apparently pleased by the message he's received (mouth curved in an almost-smile, shoulders dropping infinitesimally), and shuts the device off, setting it aside. He gives her his unfettered (disquieting) attention.

"I assume your services include a certain level of discretion," he says as he settles back into the sofa, relaxed with his knees as far apart as they could be. The posture should be obscene, and yet, he manages to appear refined, stately even.

"Of course," she answers. In truth, she's never been with someone who required an NDA. Not until now. (She's in well over her head.)

"I'm Loki Laufeyson," he offers.

She doesn't recognize the name, though she thinks she's supposed to by the scrutiny he gives her. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Laufeyson."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Loki," he corrects. "I should think the venture we're to embark on precludes certain conventions, don't you agree?"

Her eyes dart to the stack of cash on the table. "And what venture are we embarking on, specifically?" She's glad her voice is steady, fearless unlike the anxiety thrumming through her veins. She's had self-defense training, carries a bottle of pepper spray in her clutch, but his seamless confidence makes her feel vulnerable.

He doesn't answer immediately but instead his tongue grazes his bottom lip as his gaze drops in a liquid perusal of her. Chills transude through her skin in the wake of his appraisal. His lust isn't as naked as she's experienced with others, but it's somehow more intense, more unsettling. He doesn't just want a vehicle to fulfill some fantasy, she realizes. He wants _her_—the grad student who pretends at being a call girl on occasion.

"Lady's choice," he says. "We can negotiate any further activities afterward."

(_Impress me_.)

Showtime.

She slips out of her heels, rises from her chair, and grabs the glasses and wine as she crosses the short distance to him, dragging the base of the bottle across the table. He watches her, grinning as she hands him the glasses. She fists the skirt of her gown, hikes it over her knees, and straddles his lap. (His eyes widen a fraction, unmasking his desire. He likes this, and she likes that he does.) He smells good, _really_ good. Only a hint of cologne (aftershave?), something expensive—foreign.

She takes a glass from him, pours the wine, and then trades it for the other. (Her hands shake only a little.) She bends down, dropping the bottle on the floor next to the sofa, and he grips her hip with his free hand. She's enjoyed many of her encounters enough before (or else she would have caved to enslavement by financial institutions long before now), but as he lazily pulls her closer to him, she's struck by how deeply she _wants_ this.

She salutes him with her glass. "Deal." She takes a generous sip, letting the woody, spicy drink roll over her tongue. Baco Noir. (A refined palate is another gift from this job.) He watches her, waits until she's finished her wine before plucking the stemware from her hands. He doesn't refill it, but leans into her to set it on the table along with his. (He hasn't taken a drink.)

"I wasn't in the mood for company tonight," he murmurs as he draws back, cheek brushing against hers. His breath sears her, ignites a flame in her belly. "But you intrigue me, Jane Foster."

She picks at his tie, loosens it farther, but doesn't undo the knot. She pulls it over his head and then over hers. "I could say the same for you, Loki." He does intrigue her, but he intimidates her, too.

He curls his fingers around the scrap of silken fabric now resting in the deep V-neck of her bodice. "Good." He gives the tie a gentle tug, guiding her down to him until his mouth meets hers.

His kiss is an unhurried exploration, reaffirming their agreement that she has the reins. For this round; it's telling how she has no doubt there will be another. Because this lip-lock is only a taste of the voltage that has begun to spark between them. It's never been like this before, and—oh, _god_—already it's not enough. (Something more. Something dangerous.)

She deepens the kiss, makes it wet when he tips his head to the side, opens his mouth in invitation. He releases the tie, one hand pressing into her lower back, pushing her flush against his chest, and the other sliding beneath her bunched skirt. She can't breathe, the air is too charged with the feel of his long fingers (smooth, uncalloused) galvanizing her flesh as they inch up her thigh. He stops shy of where she wants him, thumb caressing frustratingly close, and she resists the instinct to roll her hips forward. She doesn't want to give away her control, not to him, not yet.

(Soon, though, if he keeps this up.)

He breaks away, trails heated kisses down her neck, pulling the strap of her gown down her shoulder and following its descent with his mouth, and she almost forgets that this is supposed to be about him, not her—that he's a client, not her lover. She runs her hands up his chest, pushes him back (the smirk he gives her fuels the inferno in her middle, sends it spiraling downward), and undoes the top button of his shirt, then the next. Not too fast, though. (She wants to rip them open, wants his skin against hers.) This is her moment, her seduction.

Her test.

(Jane always passes her tests.)

She nudges his shirt open, traces the muscle lines on his chest and abdomen with open appreciation. (He's slender, but fit.) He answers by pulling the tab of her zipper down. She helps him drag the garment over her head. When she begins to unknot the tie, he grasps her hand.

"Don't," he says, smoothing it flat between her breasts. "I like it." His fingers graze the lace of her strapless bra, and that simple caress steals the breath from her. "This, however, can go."

She laughs, or tries to, because that was not at all what she was expecting to hear, not with such abject reverence in his tone. "Eager are we, Mr. Laufeyson?"

His responding gaze is ascetic, withering the fragile lighthearted moment. "It's Loki," he says with enough authority that she thinks he'll end this interlude if she makes the mistake again. "Now, shall I do the honors? Or will you?"

She gives him a tight smile, marvels that she still wants him, desperately _needs_ him even though he's raised her ire. "As you wish." She takes her time popping the clasps as she holds the bra against her chest.

She climbs off of his lap and makes him wait before letting the lingerie drop to the floor. She shimmies out of the matching bottoms too, kicking them over to where her dress lies. And the way he _looks_ at her—she's never felt more exposed. (Never wanted to please anyone as much as she wants to please him.) She swallows down her apprehension, spins in a slow circle.

"Do you approve?" she asks with a pinch of sarcasm.

His tongue is wetting his lip again (why does that make her legs weak?), and he leans forward, shrugging out of his shirt (his arms are lean and nicely muscled, too). "Oh, yes," he says. And then he's standing—so _tall_—advancing on her, tangling his fingers in her hair, tilting her head back. "How spirited you are, little Jane." (He likes this, too.)

He crushes his mouth over hers with a hunger that incinerates the blood in her veins. Her moment is over—or the illusion of it. She understands now that he was always in command, from the moment he spoke to her at the bar, and she feels young, naïve. And resentful. Because she's not _that_ young, and she's certainly not naïve.

His hands are behind her thighs, lifting her, and she wraps her legs around his waist as he carries her to another room, still inhaling her as if he'll suffocate otherwise. (Not desperation, but _possession_.) Her skin, her bones and sinews, vibrate with every brush of the curve of her against the flat planes of him, with every sweep of his tongue against hers. He is a black hole, and she's lost in his devouring gravity.

(Exactly where she wants to be.)

She gasps at the cool caress of satin sheets on her back. He doesn't give her space to breathe, to separate what his touch does to her or the feel of his teeth scraping the peak of her breast into quantifiable terms she can properly assimilate. She's trapped in a white hot vortex of sensation and it's still _not_ _enough_.

Her eyes fly open (when had she closed them?) when his hand reaches the apex between her legs. And—god, oh, _god_—he's splitting every atom in her body, one by agonizing one, with each stroke. (She _is_ young. She _is_ naïve. She's never experienced it like _this_. But she can't let her body reveal this truth. She _can't_. She can't fail this test.)

She shoves him onto his back and he laughs. (The dry, raspy sound makes her heart stutter.) She fumbles with his belt, glaring at her hands which seem to have lost the ability to function now that _his_ hands have found her breasts again. In retaliation for his distraction, she drags her palm up his indurated length and grins when he hisses. She gets his slacks off in short order (he must have taken his shoes off somewhere between the living room and here); his boxer briefs follow. And then she strokes him—he's long there, too—only twice before he's pulling her up to him, taking her mouth again.

She's glad when he produces a foil packet (because she's adrift in hunger and thirst and only wants to slake this overwhelming urgency), and she takes it from him, tears it open with her teeth, rolls it over him, and sinks down onto him (affording him the same courtesy of adjustment he gave her—none at all). He throws his head back with a groan, though he laughs again.

"Such a _firebrand_," he says in a breathy voice.

She replies with a roll of her hips and is awarded another groan. (She's acing this evaluation.)

But he's not so easily deterred. He grips her side, pushes her further down until she feels like she can't take any more of him without cleaving in half. His other hand slides between them, resumes the assault she cut short moments ago. She's too busy going nuclear to care that he's taken dominance over her _again_.

She's close, so _close_ to absolution. Just a little more—

"Has it been like this," he asks, ripping her back from the cusp of heaven, "with the men who've come before?"

She glowers down at him. (She doesn't want to be reminded that this is business transaction—not until he's finished her.) "I don't talk about my other clients."

He sits up, pulls her into a bruising embrace, and flips them both over. He pushes her legs up, angles himself so that—god, _yes_. She tries to bite back her moan. Like _that_.

"Have they known you by name—your _real_ name?" he murmurs against her cheek.

"No." The truth slips past her lips, and it doesn't matter. Because he's rocking into her, deep and hard, sending her toward the stars once more.

"Have they," he breathes—_pants_, "made you feel like this?"

She wants to scream because she's at the edge, if he would only—but he won't _shut_ _up_. Her eyes burn with tears, with despair. (He's going to trap her forever in this hell of almost-bliss.) "_Please_."

He gives her a ruthless thrust, and brilliant light flashes across her vision. "Tell me," he growls.

"You're an asshole," she spits back at him as she pounds her fists against his shoulders.

He props himself up on his hands. His raven hair frames his face with a wild halo, and she thinks he might be the devil incarnate—especially with the lethal smile he gives her. "_Tell me_."

She squirms beneath him, unconsciously seeking the friction that will put an end to this torment, but he won't let her have it, not until—"No, they haven't," she answers in voice cracked with need. (She hates him for this.)

"Good," he says (because, she realizes, he was never competing with her, but with the men who've had her before; it wasn't _her_ test, but his).

Satisfied, he picks up the momentum, watches her face for cues to go faster, harder. She doesn't bother to stifle the sounds that tear out of her throat (he seems to like this as well), accelerating along with the final crescendo radiating from her core, setting alight the microscopic cells in her body. He's brought her to the precipice for the third time, and this time, he lets her fall.

She cries out, arching up into him as she digs tracks into his sweat-slicked back. Irrationally, she thinks no one will ever make her feel like this again.

He reaches his climax in silence, neck strained, teeth gritted, vein protruding from his forehead, and somehow his restraint sends an aftershock of pleasure through her.

(He's ruined her.)

Afterward, she stands before the windows that span the entire wall of his bedroom, gripping closed the soft, terrycloth bathrobe she wears. She hasn't decided if she'll take a shower before making her walk of shame—though she's not particularly ashamed. And he hasn't paid her yet. (Make yourself at home, he said before leaving the room.) The lights of Boston are beautiful, as _alive_ as he's made her.

She sees his reflection behind her before he snakes an arm around her waist, pulling her into him. She leans her head back into his chest because, against all odds, it feels natural and because this singular experience is drawing to a close, only to be revisited in the memories filed away under That One Time. He presses a stack of bills into her hand—no, _two_—and her breath catches. Twenty thousand dollars.

"This is too much," she says. Her (temporary) profession may fall on the wrong side of legal, but she has integrity.

"Not for the week." He hooks a finger in the collar of her robe, tugs it back. "Stay," he says between the kisses he places down the line of her neck. "Take the money."

She's tempted, but—"I can't." She closes her eyes with a heavy sigh. "I have classes."

Her denial doesn't interrupt his onslaught. "And I have my work," he rumbles against her skin. "There's no conflict."

She snorts, annoyed with his persistence. (And annoyed with how much she wants to accept his offer.) "You're asking me to play house with you while you're in the city?"

"Not at all," he says, grasping the end of the tie at her waist and pulling it undone. "I'm asking you to play mistress."

Oh, god. Is he—? She glances at his fingers. No ring. No tan line for one, though his skin is too pale. Not that she hasn't before (though she tries not to know), but a week would move her from being some nebulous harlot to The Other Woman.

His chest reverberates with laughter, as if he's guessed her worries and he finds them quaint. He turns her to face him. "I have neither time nor inclination for a wife and family," he assures her. "Take the money."

She shakes her head, though it's more resignation than defiance. "You won't take no for an answer."

He smirks. "Not when I want something." He cradles her jaw, leans forward, and whispers against her lips, "I always get what I want, Jane Foster."

His desire is intoxicating, and she drinks it in, letting all the logical, rational reasons why she shouldn't do this slip through her fingertips like water as he divests her of her robe and ushers her toward the bed once more.

The next morning, she wakes to an empty room. On the nightstand lie a black keycard and a note written in a neat, angular hand.

_Bring your things_, it says. _I expect your return by noon_.

What has she done?

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><p><strong>AN:** Thank you so much for reading! If you have a moment, I'd love to know what you thought!


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